


In Which Sherlock Holmes Cannot Handle a Cold

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Series: under 1k fic [17]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post Mary, Post S3, brief texts from mycroft, john is a doctor and he doesn't want anyone else to treat him, papers that look like biscuits, sherlock drabbles, sherlock is a big stubborn baby when hes sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4440359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes can take on murder cases, body parts, and death but he can't take on a cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sherlock Holmes Cannot Handle a Cold

"Sherlock, you can't leave the house. You're sick, you'll infect everyone around you,"  John sighed and rubs his forehead. Sherlock Holmes is possibly the most stubborn patient hes ever had. He turns into a child when he's sick.

"I'm fine, John. I'm going to drop by Scotland Yard to see what they've missed. They're useless without me. Anderson misses everything," he sniffled and removed his dressing gown, proceeded to stumble into the kitchen.

"You're not and I won't allow you to leave this flat until you're better," John pressed his lips together in a fine line and followed him.

"Back to the couch," he chided as he took Sherlock's phone from his hand and placed it in his pocket.

"I'm not a child,"  Sherlock muttered grumpily as he stretched out on the couch once more.

"You act like one sometimes,"  John mumbled under his breath as he gathered used tissues and dirty dishes.

He returned with cough medicine and throat spray.

"That's disgusting, John. I'm not drinking it," Sherlock flopped over on his side to face the wall. The red liquid looked absolutely vile.

"Sherlock. You won't get better if you don't take it now turn around here,"  he tugged at Sherlock until he rolled over and faced him.

With a huff Sherlock took the medicine cup from him and downed it, cringing as he did.

"If you're trying to poison me, it's working," he said bitterly.

"If I wanted to poison you I would've done it by now and certainly not with cold medicine,"  John grumbled.

Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket. _Mycroft._

 

Hello John, how is my brother? Is he tormenting you yet? -MH

Always. -JW

I can send over a nurse. -MH

No need, he wouldn't listen to them. -JW

Do send him my regards. -MH

 

"Was that Mycroft?," Sherlock sniffled and rubbed his nose, crinkled it at the thought of his brother.

"He wanted to make sure you were being taken care of," John answered as he put the phone back in his pocket.

"I can't imagine why. He probably needs my help-"  Sherlock complained. They lived in two entirely different worlds but under all that ice and nobility, Mycroft Holmes was still Sherlock's older brother. In their own way they loved one another - from a safe distance.

 

John cut him off by gently pushing a thermometer in his mouth. Beep, beep, beep...rising...rising.

"You have a temperature,"  John said with a frown.

"Of course I do, everyone does," Sherlock snapped.

"103.5, I'm going to get some cool cloths and Motrin," his voice faded behind him as he made his way to the bathroom.

 

"John. John bring me that plate of biscuits," Sherlock slurred as he pointed at John's chair.

"Right. You're seeing things that aren't there. That's a piece of paper, Sherlock," he pressed a cool rag to Sherlock's forehead as he grimaced.

"Mrs. Hudson....she was here...brought biscuits, right over there," he pointed once more at the chair as he took the Motrin.

"Okay well. I'll check," John decided to humor him. He lifted the piece of paper and carried it over to Sherlock.

"Don't be ridiculous John, paper isn't edible. This is not biscuits," he waved a dismissive hand at the paper.

John sighed and promised to see if Mrs. Hudson had any as long as Sherlock didn't move until he came back. He'd reluctantly agreed.

 

When he returned with tarts and biscuits (much later than he'd planned, Mrs. Hudson had trapped him with gossip about Mrs. Turner) he found that Sherlock had layered himself in three blankets and was wearing thick socks but slept soundly.

"Sherlock...," John groaned as he removed each blanket and peeled off the socks. Sherlock must be exhausted, he thought to himself. He'd remained asleep the entire time.

He pressed a hand to Sherlock's forehead which was still burning hot (if he'd just listened...) and then followed with his lips. He didn't care if Sherlock was sick, he'd risk it. It was out of the realm of norm for him to even touch Sherlock outside of grabbing his arm when he walked too far ahead, too fast as John tried to talk.

He brushed back dark curls and flipped the cool rag.

"You're a lot of work but I love you," he whispered to himself as he stroked Sherlock's cheek. He would never tell Sherlock - not the man who had once claimed to be married to his work.

Sherlock leaned into John's hand and sighed in his sleep, smiled.  For a moment John wondered if he'd heard him...surely not. He hadn't moved when John had removed the blankets and socks. But then again he _was_ a damn good actor when he wanted to be. John didn't move, just sat there at his side for the longest time - it wasn't often that he saw the smaller and more vulnerable side of Sherlock. It was nice.

Sherlock Holmes was a lot of work but he was worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure there's a million sick/hurt fics out there but I wanted to try my hand at it.


End file.
